Back on the Map
by yo grey
Summary: The possibility of another murder victim forces Booth to seek Brennan's help 15 long years after their failed high school romance. But when the regrets and mistakes of their shared past resurface, will the older, wiser version of themselves find solace in the fact that evolution is key to survival? AU.
1. Raising the Dead

**A/N:** This baby's been sitting in my drafts for months. I try to be as accurate as possible but I'm afraid this one's not been proofread or fact-checked. Hit the reviews and I might just publish the next chapter sooner! xx

 **Disclaimer:** Obviously not mine. Otherwise, I would've put more love scenes in it, wouldn't I?

* * *

 _He's walking in the park with a cheerful spring in his steps, eyes fix on her standing by the oak tree. "Hey there, partner." Booth says before his arms encircle her hips from behind._

 _She stiffens, surprised, before softening into the embrace and turning in his arms to link her fingers behind his neck. Meeting his lips in a chaste kiss, she addresses him sternly, "I've been waiting here for an hour. And that's already half an hour deducted as per your reasoning that I always arrive 30 minutes too early."_

 _"Well, Pops asked me to help him with something at the shop and we forgot about the time. And then I had to shower 'cause I stink of motor oil and I was not gonna kiss you smelling like a car exhaust." He explains, his thumbs caressing her spine over the layers of clothes she's got on._

 _She hums skeptically, a lone eyebrow raised at him._

 _"C'mon, Bones. Pops says he's sorry and that I have to invite you over for dinner." He smiles at her, knowing she will cave. "He's making your grilled cheese extra special. Put the slightest hint of nutmeg that you like, huh? What d'ya think?"_

 _Her eyes narrow into thin slits at him, before the gentle line of her lips break into a wide smile and she shoves him playfully. "Sounds promising." Brennan starts walking away from him, the smile in her face beckoning him to follow her. The yellow rays of the sunlight peaking from between the clusters of leaves play across her face, the rings around her pupils becoming lighter. As she steps fully out of the shade of the tree, the light shifts and suddenly, everything is tangerine. The green grass he was standing on swapped for wood shavings and dried corn husks. He looks at her and finds her orbs widening with horror._

 _"Booth!" She manages to yell before the ground under her cracks and tilts and she falls over._

 _The strong legs of his rushes to her. Booth drops on his stomach on the ground, immediately grabbing the wrist of one of her hands that are holding onto the edge of the cliff. "Bones, are you okay? Give me your other hand."_

 _"Booth," She whispers, streams of tears rolling down her cheeks. "I can't."_

 _The ground grumbles from beneath him and he feels it against his chest. He tightens his hold on her arm. "Bones! Don't let go."_

 _Lighting illuminates the surroundings for a split second, quickly followed by thunder and then rain. Her fingers dig into the soft soil that's rapidly eroding "I can't hold on anymore."_

 _"Yes, you can, Bones! C'mon, try to move your hand again!" He yells, his face wet and his other hand trying to reach for her other arm and failing. "Don't let go, Temperance."_

 _"It's going to be too slippery, Booth. I-" She sobs, and in her face, a sad resigned smile. "I love you."_

 _"Tempe, no, don't do this!" He shouts._

 _She manages to smile at him before she slips from his grasp completely and he yells her name with anger and sorrow into the void, as if doing so could cushion her fall or give her wings._

An irritated growl rumbles within him, turning to the direction of the front door with his eyebrows knitted together, trying to see through the blinding light streaming from his windows. "Alright, alright!" He yells, and added with a murmur, "Goddamn it." He stands up, grabbing the nearest shirt he could grab from the floor and throws it on as he walks towards the front door. "What do you want?!"

He opens the door to Caroline Julian staring at him in disbelief. Pushing past him and walking into his apartment, she scowls as she looks around the mess—wrinkled clothes piled on top of a chair, last night's dinner is still lying on the coffee table, empty beer bottles scattered around the foot of the sofa. "Imagine me sitting at the diner for 2 hours, waiting for a certain FBI agent to get his plane tickets from me. I must have called said FBI agent 50 times before I realized he wasn't gonna come. Now, imagine my horror when I go knocking on said FBI agent's door and finds him still half-asleep." She props a hand against her hip, bag still in hand. "Why aren't you ready yet? Have you packed your bags? Your damn plane leaves in 45 minutes."

His eyes widened as he looked at the clock with panic. "10:15. Shit, shit, shit." He says, scrambling for his things.

Caroline remains planted on her spot in the middle of the living room, following his movements with her eyes until he disappears into his bedroom. She then hears water splashing and gurgling sounds. She walks over to his windows, looking over the balcony, observing the city below, the man in the bedroom opening and closing the closet doors and cabinets. He reappears in his black suit, stuffing a black tie in his pocket whilst holding a bulky duffel bag in his other hand. She turns to him and hands him an envelope containing his ticket, "Get it together, Seeley Booth."

He almost hops out of the cab at 10:59 after having been stuck in traffic for the last 30 minutes as the driver had convinced him to take a shortcut, not knowing the road would be closed for the presidential motorcade. His foot taps impatiently as he gets in line at the airport entrance, a litany of prayers run through his mind whilst going through security, finally reaching the boarding counter at 11:07.

"Hi," He greets the airline staff behind the boarding counter breathlessly, "11 AM flight to Cherry Capital left yet?"

The staff looks at him with a pitiful smile and says calmly, "I'm sorry, sir, but it's already on the runway. Our airline follows schedule very strictly."

"Damn." He whispers, running a firm hand over his tired face. Taking a deep breath, he casts a pleading look at her, "Do you have any other flights to any airport near the wineries?"

The woman notices his frustration and typed for a moment on her computer, then offering politely, "The next one to Cherry Capital is tomorrow at 3 AM. There's one to Green Lake which is a bit farther and you'd have to take a car for about an hour or so to reach the wineries. You'd have to wait for another 4 hours for that flight but if you ask me, it's a way better alternative. I could book you in either flight right now."

"Alright, okay." He nods, eyes staring into space as the gears in his head start turning. "How long would it take me to get from DC to Traverse if I drive?"

"Around 13 hours?"

"Okay," he sighs, shooting her a defeated smile. "Can you book me a one-way ticket to Green Lake?"

"Sure."

* * *

Booth exits the Green Lake Airport quarter of an hour before 7 PM. Slinging his duffel bag on one shoulder and reaching for the phone in his pocket, he calls his mentee who picked up after 2 rings. "Yello?" The voice from the other line says through mouthful of food in between chews.

"Manners, Aubrey." He says flatly. "Are you still at Hoover?"

He hears rustling from the other line which meant James Aubrey is putting his food down and lifting containers to look for a napkin to wipe his mouth with. "Yeah, sorry, Agent Santiago told me about this turkey sandwich place and I just had to try it. It's great, by the way, a little too heavy on the mustard but still great. Are you there yet?"

"I just landed. I'm trying to find this rent-a-car place they recommended. Has anybody called for me?" He asked, his eyes looking around the lot, trying to figure out the directions drawn on a piece of napkin by a young man sitting behind the Information Desk inside Green Lakes Airport.

"Caroline dropped by for updates, I told her I'd let her know when you call me."

"I'll call her myself tomorrow morning. Have you found anything else on the case?" He asks, walking towards a small, lit door with a sign outside that says Ronald's Rent-A-Car.

"Nothing you don't already know. Although, I did ask Sweets to give us a psychological profile of her because you apparently hadn't. Should be done by tomorrow morning."

"You did what?!" Booth stops abruptly from walking, yelling with exasperation, "Aubrey, I had no intention of having her profiled! That's why I didn't give her file to Sweets!"

Aubrey inches the phone away from his ear, suddenly thankful for hundreds of miles stretched between him and his mentor. "Okay... But why? Booth, this case has been dragged long enough, we need all the help we can get before this all blows over."

Booth sighs loudly, willing the anger to leave his system. "Just…" He grits, "call me if there's any development." He ends the call, taking one deep breath and looking at the night sky peppered with stars, he whispers with as much sanity as he could muster at the moment, "Fuck."

Half an hour later, he stands outside waiting for the rental car he ordered, sighing with resignation when the subcompact Honda comes to a halt in front of him, the young woman who assisted him stepping out of the car and holding the door open for him, wishing him a safe drive.

He reaches Traverse City in about an hour and a half but gets stuck in a bit of traffic due to an accident up ahead that's taken a while to be cleared up. Grabbing his phone from the passenger seat, he waits for the other line to get picked up.

"Seeley. How's it going?" Says the voice that answered.

"Took a few wrong turns before I reached Traverse City and when I did, I get stuck in traffic." He moans.

"So you haven't seen her yet?"

He clicks his tongue, knowing full well where this conversation is going but choosing to face the issue head on anyway. "No, Cam. Not yet."

"Well, do you know what you're gonna say to her?" She asks.

"I don't know, Cam. Does 'Hey, it's me, your prick of an ex-boyfriend from 15 years ago. Care to let me in?' sound good enough?"

"Okay, no need to be hostile, Seeley. I'm just trying to help." Retorts the voice from the other line softly.

Bringing over a hand to massage his forehead, he sighs, "I know. I'm sorry. Things would go easier if you were the one to go over here and see her."

"I'm not the agent on this case, Seel. I'm just the autopsy gal." She retorts, voice laced with remorse and pity.

The traffic clears up half an hour after that. A few missed turns which prompted him to turn the car back around multiple times, and a quick stop for dinner later, a sign saying La Maison Benois is illuminated by his headlights. He parks the car between an old pick up truck and a black sedan under a tree, switches the key off the ignition and gets out of the car. Music floats out of the house and he hears laughter mixing in with the song as he nears the door. His eyes flicker over to the windows but the light-colored curtains illuminated from the inside are drawn close. He hears two people singing inside, their voices breathless between sloppily cheerful lyrics, "Ole! Ole! The wedding samba! Will bring a pretty señorita to her feet!"

He wipes his sweaty palms on his pants before raising a fist, his knuckles coming down on the wooden surface, suddenly unsure with the appropriate rhythm he should be knocking on a door. He knocks once, twice, thrice. Inside his chest, his heart beats erratically, raking his mind for a sole word to describe what he's feeling.

Melodies escape through the gap between the door and the doorframe, the body of the woman standing in front of him doing nothing to keep the music in. He drinks her in—the smile disappearing from her lips, her lazy eyes widening, deep strawberry blonde locks framing her face. His brown eyes lock with those blue of hers and he says, "Temperance Brennan. You're a difficult woman to find."

She stares at him in shock, in disbelief, as if he's the last thing she's expecting to see on her front door. "What- what are you doing here?"

A few moments pass and they continue to stare at each other wordlessly until a throat clearing behind him interrupts them. "Uhm hello, yes, hi. Would you mind moving a little bit to the side, please? These are really quite heavy and I've had quite a bit of a drink." Booth turns around to see whom the British accent belonged to and sees a slender young man, no more than 21 or 22 years old, hugging two big brown bags against him, glasses clinking and liquid sloshing from within the bag as he shifts his balance from one side to the other in a desperate attempt to hold his purchases up.

Brennan remains frozen in place, panic settling in her eyes even as Vincent interrupts their exchange. Booth extends a hand towards one of the bags, claiming one from Vincent who willingly obliges and says with a toothy grin, "Thanks, mate. Cheers."

But she tries to grab the bag from Booth and says persistently, "I got it."

Vincent walks past the both of them, pushing the door more openly and leaving them to tug at the bag. Booth's eyes catches the slight wobble in her steps and the languid way her arms reach for the bottles. "It's fine." He manages to get out before another set of hands take the very culprit he and Brennan are tugging at from his secure arms.

He looks up and sees a tall, brunette woman smiling at him through a haze of drunkenness, winking at him and saying, "I got it, hot stuff. Come inside, join the party."

"Angela," the other woman says, "you don't even know him."

"But you do." The brunette whispers to her friend, reaching for Booth's arm with her hand that's not hugging the groceries to her chest. Booth lets her drag him and hears Brennan close the door behind them, the sound of her footsteps falling after them. Angela lets go of him in the middle of the living room, and without even turning back her head, announces loudly, "Vino and I will be at the kitchen mixing drinks for everyone." Which leaves him and Temperance Brennan alone with the music and the palpable awkwardness in the room.

She steps in front of him, clearing her throat and sitting down on the large plush caramel-colored leather sofa. He follows her with his gaze, eyes averting when she tries to meet his gaze. The confidence he seemingly had on his way over diminishing with every minute he spends in her presence.

"Might as well sit down." She says with firmness and formality. However much drink she's had through the night seem to have no effect on her at all as she studies him clearly in her head. And he seems to feel her unyielding stare even as he strides over to the sofa in front of her, keenly aware that something beyond that large oak coffee table radiates between them. If only Angela would serve those darn drinks sans mixtures right there and then instead of the hefty tray of awkwardness stretched between the two of them across the coffee table.

She watches the slight slouch in his posture, the way his Adam's apple bobs as he sits down, the tense broad expanse of his shoulders, the way the sleeves of his white button down fit over his arms, the small lines of paler skin on his knuckles, the numerous amount of restless nights evident in the bags under his eyes, the short play of about a week's worth of stubble on his face.

He looks around the living room, trained gaze flickering from furniture to fireplace to the crown moldings where the walls and ceiling meet, his thumb tapping nervously on one jean-clad knee. "Nice place." He comments, and only when she clears her throat did he let his eyes fall on her. "You changed your hair… It's nice."

She takes a deep breath and lets go of it loud enough for it to communicate her irritation. "This isn't a social visit, is it? Why are you here?"

He blinks and the shameful glint in his eyes turn serious, impersonal. "I'm a special agent with the FBI now. The uh- the bureau wants to consult with you on a case."

"No." She grits, standing up abruptly to walk towards the front door. "Try the Jeffersonian Institution. Whatever it is, I'm sure they will be more than capable of helping you solve your case. Good bye."

He stands up to face her but plants both feet on the ground even as he sees her open the door to usher him out of the house. "I came all the way here from D.C., the least you could do is hear me out."

"'The least I could do?'" Her eyes grow cold when she feigns a laugh. "I don't owe you anything."

Quite taken aback by his own brash demand, his face grows softer in silent apology, head hanging low. "Right. You're right."

She holds the door more openly.

Booth's eyes meet hers, barely contained rage and exhaustion swimming in the blue green of her orbs. "I wouldn't be here if it isn't important, Bones."

"Since when do you know about sorting out priorities?" She scoffs. "And it's Dr. Brennan to you, seeing as you forfeited the right to call me by that moniker long ago. Now, please leave."

He sighs in defeat and makes his way to the door. "I'll tell Cam you're doing well." He whispers as he passes her, the tight line of her lips remains unmoving, and he disappears into the darkness of the night.

Brennan closes the door after him, bolting it and sliding the chain onto the latch. Leaning with her back against the door when she finally hears his car drive away. She closes her eyes tiredly, the feelings she do not know how to name ebbing in and out of her, the very dauntlessness she mustered washing out of her.

"Want a drink?" says Angela across the room, holding a mixed drink of some kind on each hand. "Wait, where did he go?" She adds, Vincent coming to stand beside her, smiling among the tray of two silver Cuervos, shot glasses, a saucer of salt, and slices of lime.

* * *

They move aside as Brennan holds the door for the octogenarian exiting the diner. The older woman smiles as she moves past the two women wearing dark sunglasses but still wincing at the sun.

"Oh my god." Angela murmurs. Sitting down on one of the stools by the counter, she presses on her forehead and temples. "We really shouldn't have had that last shot last night."

"Or the other 5 before that." Brennan chimes in, sitting beside her with the same expression on her face and waving at the waitress.

Angela turns to her friend slowly, eyes narrowing in disgust. "Don't talk too loud. God. Feels like my head's being bulldozed."

The waitress nods at them and heads toward their direction with two mugs and a pot of coffee. "You two look like hell. Fun night?" She says quietly, pouring them each a cup of joe. "What can I get you two?"

"It was and then it wasn't..." She scowls inwardly at the memory, his face swimming on the forefront of her mind. "I'll have the 2-stack chocolate chip waffles, no whip. She'll have an English breakfast—sausage, beans, the works… And another English breakfast to go."

The blonde waitress nods, writing their orders down. "Anything else?"

"Angie?" Brennan whispers.

The brunette sips her coffee, a sweet relief washing over her. She shakes her head slowly and smiles politely at the waitress. "Thanks, Jasmine." Angela says, the woman behind the counter stepping away to put in their orders. She turns back to her friend, lifting her sunglasses to perch atop her head, flinching at the brightness of the place. "So?"

She looks back at Angela, the slight fall on the tone of her voice failing to hide the denial her pitch black sunglasses tries to feign. "What?"

Angela rolls her eyes, suddenly regretting so when the reaction triggered a hefty pounding in her head. "The hottie from last night. You know—tall, arms like they've been sculpted by Michelangelo, taut butt, brown eyes, dripping with sensuality… Ring any bells?"

She sits up properly, sipping on her coffee like she didn't hear her friend.

"I won't press you to talk about him, Temps. You'll talk to me when you're ready. He's really hot, though. You should have had sex with him before you sent him away." Sensing her friend's protest bubbling as she puts down her cup, Angela remarks, "I'm just saying, you haven't had sex since Jake skipped town. Pretty soon, self-service isn't gonna do it for you, sweetie. And you're gonna go cuckoo, and we're gonna have to send you over to the nest where they'll electrocute you until you're catatonic, and then a tall man who doesn't speak will walk out of the nest through the window."

"Hey, I actually know that reference." Brennan smiles. "And what are you, the getting-laid patrol? Look, you're a great friend and thank you for your concern about my sexual life. But really, I'm fine, Ang."

"I bet." Angela says, making the mistake of rolling her eyes again.

Their orders arrive and the two eat in silence, both munching on their food with much gusto. Brennan spaces out, her mind wandering off to another place, another time.

About half an hour passes and they're both nursing their second cups of coffee, picking on their shared fruit bowl, when the cook walks over to them.

"Hey," Leo nods at them and addresses Brennan, "so listen, a guy was here last night around 11 PM, asking questions about you."

Brennan's eyebrows knit, "Tall, brown hair, about 35, well-built, wearing a suit but no tie?" She inquires and he nods. "What kind of questions?"

"He asks about what you do around here, what you're like as a customer." Leo shrugs, waiting for Brennan to show some kind of reaction. When she doesn't, he continues, "We didn't say anything, of course. We didn't know who he was or what he wanted from you." The cook leans close to them, lowering his voice to ask, "You in some sort of trouble, Temperance?"

She shakes her head and offered him a polite smile. "No. I'm fine, I knew him way back. Thanks, Leo."

When he leaves, Angela stares at her friend, mouth agape. "Bren…"

"Yes." She answers ahead of the questions she can feel forming inside her friend's head.

"The Michelangelo is Booth." She muses, putting two and two together.

"Yes."

"From Maryland."

"Yes." Brennan repeats.

"That scar behind your ear."

"Yes."

"Damn." Angela frowns, stabbing her fork on her sausage as Jasmine sets it in front of them. "Can't really be hot if you're an idiot."

The two pay their meals and drive back home with Vincent's take out. They found him still deeply asleep before they left for the diner and decided against waking him up. Out of the three of them, he was the one who had the most to drink the previous night. And given the scrawny structure of his physique, he's not really one to handle too much liquor.

When they turn to enter the property, they spot Vincent squinting at their approaching vehicle. He's in his faded denim jumpers, holding a hand over his forehead to shield his eyes from the 1 PM sun. With his free hand, he waves at them and Brennan parks the pick-up truck by the tree beside Angie's sedan.

"You two had a good meal?" He greets them when they step out of the pick-up.

Brennan extends the take out to him and he thanks her. "Oh, lovely. Yes. Thank you." He manages to say before he steps in front of her to stop her from walking past him. "I'm afraid there's quite a bit of an issue." He smiles nervously.

"Spit it out, V-man." Angela pipes in.

"As you both know, I'm fairly drunk last night and so I vaguely remember whether you had any instructions as to whether the man is to be trusted or not. So when he, uh, came back this morning looking for you again, I might have invited him in."

"Shit," Brennan grumbles. "How long has he been here? Where is he?"

"5 minutes short of an hour. In the living room. I might have also given him a can of soda." He answers and Brennan immediately starts walking towards the house in quick, purposeful strides. "I'm sorry," Vincent yells after her, "I'm English. Being hospitable is deeply embedded in my nature."

Angela claps the young man's back as they both watch her grab the knob and disappear through the door. "Don't worry, you're not getting fired, V-man. You're just in trouble, that's all."

Brennan slams the door behind her, startling the unwelcomed guest sitting in her living room. He stood up and raised both arms. "I didn't come here to fight." He explains.

She charges towards him with an unamused look in her face. "I think I strongly implied last night that I do not want you here, Booth." She stops in front of him, her chest heaving in anger and the fast pace in which she has walked from where he now stands, her nostrils flaring at the slightest bit, his perfume wafting onto her and she takes a step back from him.

He's dumbfounded at the realization that it's the first time he hears her utter his name for years. And even after all that time, his heart still finds it breathtaking that his name could sound so smoothly as it rolls off her lips. "I'm sorry. I'll leave. But please, just take a look at these files. It has all the information you need." He points to the small stack of manila folders perched atop her coffee table and waited for her sight to follow where his finger leads. A slow tired breath makes its way out of his chest with a sound. "If it was just up to me, I never would've bothered you at all—you know that. But there may be lives at stake and you're our best chance at solving this."

She hears the sincerity in his voice meet his eyes and she tells him, "I'll think about it."

"Room 208." He says flatly. "I'll be at the motel by the fire station till tomorrow morning at 9. Let me know if you're in."

She watches him walk out of the door.

* * *

 **A/N 2:** I made a playlist entitled " _back on the map (a bones fanmix)_ " and you can access it on Spotify from user miegoreng69. will add more songs to it as I update


	2. Four Truths and A Lie

**A/N** **1** **:** Thank you for all those reviews you left for the first chapter! To recap: (1) Brennan lives in Michigan and has dyed her hair strawberry blonde, (2) Booth, Brennan, and Cam knew each other in high school, (3) Aubrey and Sweets are of the same age and are not that much younger than Booth because this is my AU. Also, I'm about 70% sure I'll fuck up the crime parts. Again, had not been proofread by anyone else. See ya at the bottom of the chapter!

Rating changed from T to M.

 **Content Warning:** Gore, nudity, smoking, anxiety

* * *

"Ow!" Exclaimed Vincent after falling on his side on the floor with a thud, interrupting Brennan from her thoughts. He quickly looks up and sees that she has turned around just as quickly, just staring at him from where she's standing by the couch, a tired look on her face. "Oops."

"Get up, Vincent." Brennan deadpans. "Angela, I know you're behind that wall as well. You can come out now."

Angela, ignoring the lithe young man on the floor, purposefully walks towards her friend. "Bren, life and death? Seriously? I mean, I knew you were a Dr. Death and I'm sure they could find some other doctor who's _actually willing_ to help them. Wasn't the whole moving-away-without-telling-anyone thing enough of a hint? And the whole 'you're our best chance at solving this'? What's up with that?" She crosses her arms over her chest, eyes narrowing in skepticism.

"I've been gone for quite a while, and so I'm unsure as to whether another forensic anthropologist has outranked me as the most qualified in the country." Brennan frowns and cocks her head towards the pile of folders stacked on the coffee table. "I guess I'll find out."

Hours pass through her fingertips, the afternoon breeze softly blowing the thin white curtains hanging on the door to her small veranda. Papers and photos and copies of X-rays cover half the floor of Brennan's bedroom, Brennan herself sitting on the floor with her legs tucked under her, eyes trained on the files, her face stoic, the gears in her head turning and processing every iota of information within her grasp. She's lost deep in her thoughts, unaware of the knocking on her door until the very person presented herself in front of her.

"Hey, I brought you coffee and a sandwich." Says Angela, gaze going over the files scattered all over.

Brennan looks up, receiving the tray from Angie and setting it down beside her. "Thanks."

"This is… Wow. I mean, what do you make of all of this?"

"A burnt body was found duct taped onto a crucifix inside a church in Pennsylvania on the evening of the 4th of July last year. Cause of death was a single gunshot wound to the sternum." Brennan points to one side of her room where numerous photos and paper were grouped together. "The victim was a priest in his mid-60s. No one has seen anyone walk in when everyone went home for the night. All leads point to nothing except a single piece of small column about 3 inches tall made from ivory tusk lodged in his throat."

Angela winces at the photos of human remains, grimace painted across her features at the prospect of such grave ways to die and the cruelty of having performed such merciless acts. Nonetheless, she keeps still and continues listening.

"November 4th, a decomposed skull was found at the top of an elementary school flagpole in West Virginia, tied to the rope they use to raise the flag. They haven't found the body but they matched the dental records with those of a 26-year old college freshman. Severity of decay puts time of death 3 days before the skull was found. They found a similar ivory column a few feet from the flagpole, covered in human remains. It must have fallen off from the victim's head when it was reeled up onto the top of the pole.

"And then January 7th this year, they found a set of burnt remains in a car in the underground parking lot of the International Trade Center in D.C.. The victim was a lawyer, 37, has no personal relationships even with co-workers. Likewise, there were no witnesses, no leads. Time of death was also a week before the body was found." Brennan sighs and touches the crime scene photo of the third victim as if she could feel the skull under her fingertips.

Sitting down at an arm's length beside Brennan, she watches the way her friend looks at the files, every move seems stiff and cold. "Why do those deaths seem familiar?"

"These murders," says Brennan, looking up at Angela and failing to hide how upset she is, "albeit not exactly the same, they're patterned after my books."

"Your _what_?" Inquires Angela instantly.

As she explains, Brennan started gathering the files into a pile. "The Kathy Reichs series. I've been writing under the pseudonym Joy Ruth Keenan."

"I'm sorry, what?!" Comes the shocked reply from Angie.

"I've been writing the Kathy Reichs series under the pseudonym Joy Ruth Keenan. I—"

" _You're_ Joy Ruth Keenan?!" The other woman responds. "That's crazy. I would've known."

Brennan sighs, "I thought you already knew. When you went over last year and joked about how I should give you an entire set because I have 2 copies of each book on the series and I did. You have also answered the phone at least 5 times when my publisher Claudia called. And once when you insisted that we should go out and drink with Jake, you asked me where I got the money to buy and operate the vineyard, and I told you that I got it from writing."

Angela seats slumped across from Brennan, her mouth hanging open in confusion, trying to make sense of everything. "Claudia is your publisher? I thought she was your lawyer. And how am I supposed to remember having asked where you got your money, when I told you the next day that I don't remember anything after those orange tsunami shots. Plus, I was there when Max gave you a virtual tour of their new villa in France via video call, sweetie. Your parents are loaded."

"Angie, you know I hate asking my parents for money. And I can't really blame you. I've been refusing to do promotions and have my photo printed at the back of my books."

"That makes a lot more sense. No one knows what she looks like. She's never hosted a single signing or reading event. Not even a TV appearance. She doesn't even give away enough biography on the back of her books. And _y_ _ou're_ Joy Ruth Keenan…" She trails, bewildered, a loose hand over her own mouth as she sees her blue-eyed friend in front of her in a different new light.

"My parents call me Joy, it's a childhood nickname. And my mother's name is Ruth," Brennan explains. "But this isn't about me."

The concern grows in her face as she realizes the gravity of the situation. "Right. Right. The dead. Oh my god, sweetie, are you okay?"

Brennan gets up and retrieves a fresh shirt from her closet. "Yeah, why wouldn't I be? Murder is always horrible. I wrote fictional novels, Angela. They're supposed to stay fictional. The murderer is the one whom we should be blaming for all of these."

When Brennan disappears into the bathroom, Angela hears the faucet running and stands up to sit across the files on the bed, thinking, and calls out to her friend. "So when Michelangelo says that there are lives at stake, he meant that he thinks there will be more victims?"

"Yes." She walks back to her room in a gray V-neck tee and faded jeans. Brennan reaches for the files and stops to explain to her friend. "My publisher is already printing my fourth novel. If it goes in stores before the killer is caught, there's going to be a rise in body count."

"Bren," Angela sighs, walking after Brennan as she turns to leave the room, "this is not on you, okay? It's not your fault that there are sick bastards in the world."

"I know." Brennan lies through her teeth. But she blinks once like she always does when she lies. And she's not sure whether her friend is aware about this little tell of hers but she decides to push it anyway. "I'm going to talk to Booth. Can you make sure Vincent checks if we're ready for bottling on Monday?"

"Yeah. Sure." Angela nods, still dumbfounded at the sudden influx of strange and surprising revelations that unfolded in front of her in a very short span of time.

* * *

She trudges quickly along the stairs of the small motel. Glancing at the numbers on the doors as she passes them by, she stops in front of room 208. Grasping the stack of files on her right arm, she knocks on the wooden door. When no one answers, she knocks again, the papers almost falling off her arm. With frustration, she starts pounding the side of her fist on the door, hard and purposeful. She rolls her eyes and presses an ear to the door, listening for movements inside. She tries to rattle the door knob, to no avail.

Internally, she curses at him for showing up in her vineyard—in her life—and dragging her into the heap of heavy mess that's she's literally trying to balance in one arm right now. The rage in her chest was starting to bubble up and Brennan decides in that glorious brain of hers that she's going to pound thrice for the last time and if no one answers the door, she's going to leave him and the files and the cases behind and continue on with her life as a vigneron. With a huff, she brings her fist mid-air, poised to knock, and the door suddenly swings open, revealing Booth, holding a gun to her, rivulets of water glistening on his chest, the contrast of the white towel against his tanned skin unmistakable as its ends unhook from his waist.

Her eyes trail lower, tracing the path that the lone droplet travels from his clavicle to his abdomen and over his hips, and his uhm… She blinks rapidly, a soft blush creeping its way up her neck. Turning her head away, she tells him flatly, "Lower the gun, pick up the towel, get dressed. Meet me at Sally's in 15 minutes."

His eyes widen and he shuts the door but not nearly as fast as it took for her to disappear in front of him.

When she pulls up at the diner, her face numb from having rolled down her window on the short trip from the motel. But the chill of the late afternoon in March does nothing to help her body calm down. She slams the door close, her thoughts roaming wild as she trudges into the diner.

She hadn't seen him for a long time, that much she knows. Yet she still wonders how much she remembers about him just so she can compare those to what he is now—how much he's changed. They both did. After all, they were just kids then—ignorant, stubborn, disillusioned.

Images of him kept flashing in her head—the soft dip between his eyebrow, his lips, his wide shoulders, the week-old stubble on his chin that spread on his lower cheeks, his lips, his chest, his strong biceps, the veins on his forearms gripping the firearm, the dark hues of his nipples, the extension of his pubic hair, his sculpted hips, the impressive display of his dick even as it was flaccid, his lips, his shoulders, his dick, his chest, his arms, his chest, his arms, his lips on her breasts, his lips between her thighs, his hands holding her hips as his dick slams repeatedly in and out of her—

"Hey, Temperance." Greets Nancy, the waitress who takes the second shift at the diner. Fair skin and blonde hair, she's no more than 40. Over the course of 4 years, she and the other staff of the diner have grown familiar to Brennan and her quiet observing eyes. "You okay? You look a little pale but you're kinda sweating."

Brennan looks up at the waitress and forces a smile, shaking her head a little. "Oh. I'm fine. We tasted a few barrels earlier." She blinked. "Anyway, I was just thinking."

"Must be pretty serious then. The way you were staring at those salt and pepper shakers, you could be charged for murder." She remarks, the corners of her eyes crinkling at the customer.

"I believe it's impossible to be charged for the murder of inanimate objects." Brennan notes sincerely.

"I sure do hope so. What with all those bionic inventions popping up everywhere, who knows." The waitress shrugs. "Did Leo tell you about the man here last night?"

"Yes, thank you. I'm actually waiting for him right now."

Nancy nods, knowing it's not her place to push for information, especially after having found her in that trance. "Well, what can I get you?"

"Just a cup of chamomile tea, please. Thank you." Brennan gave her an honest smile and the blonde turned to leave. The diner was not as packed yet—it is after all too late for afternoon snacks and too early for dinner. She taps the files beside her, thankful that the last booth at the very end of the diner was not occupied when she came in, for what she and Booth will discuss might horrify the other customers.

Nancy is just setting down the cup of tea in front of Brennan when he slides in on the booth, sitting opposite her. Nancy smiles at the man and nods at him, "Seems you know Tempe after all." Booth offers him a curt smile and she asks him, "You gonna order?"

"A cup of coffee and a burger."

The waitress leaves and Booth clears his throat, "You looked at the files?"

"Yes." Brennan says, putting the stack on the table and sliding it over to him. "You're here which means you know about my pseudonym, my books. Do you concur?"

The warm browns of his orbs are cast downwards, following the lines of the ends of the manila folders. "Yes."

"The ways in which the remains were found are similar to those in my book. "

"Yes." He repeats.

"Am I a suspect?"

His face snaps up and stares at her. "No."

"But you believe I can be of help."

"Yes." He says again, his features growing more serious, detached, professional as he answers her rain of questions. "We have to catch the killer before somebody else dies. In order to do so, we will need a fresh set of eyes. We're hoping you could provide us some insight and reveal new evidence that could point us to the killer."

When Nancy comes back with Booth's order, he slides the stack of files at the edge of the table by the window and the two customers remain quiet until the waitress is out of earshot. She asks coldly, not batting an eye, "Who examined the remains?"

"The Jeffersonian. Cam is the head of the Medico-Legal Lab."

"I'm fully aware of that." Brennan states. "But she's a forensic _pathologist_. Who's the forensic anthropologist in-charge of the case?"

"Dr. Zack Addy, former child prodigy—IQ above 163. He received his doctorate at 26."

"He seems capable enough. Why do you need me?"

"Because as of October last year, he's _27._ "

Brennan's brows shoot upwards at the slightest. "I'm quite certain Cam found it rational and reasonable to hire him. The Jeffersonian only hires the best in their fields."

"He's _a_ _kid_."

"Not at all. When you're 21, you're considered an adult everywhere in the world." She argues, taking a sip of her tea.

"We need _more_ , Bo—" He cuts himself off, reminded of how she doesn't want to be addressed in the old moniker. Booth sighs and leans forward, whispering. " _Please._ We need you on this case."

"How did you know where to find me?" She asks, eyes narrowing into thin slits.

"It's the FBI." At Booth's reply, Brennan's eyebrow shot up and Booth added, "And I had to blackmail Sully."

She leans back and stares at him for a long time which he tries to make less awkward by taking bites out of his burger one after the other. She shifts her gaze on the plate of fries in front of her and slides out of her seat. "Arrange for myself to fly out with you tomorrow and where I will be staying. We observe professionalism to its full extent. That means no bringing up the past, no asking about the present, no conversations about our personal lives unless otherwise related to the case which I very much doubt will be. I'll work on these murders as long as I see fit. If at any moment I find my expertise of no more importance to the case, our agreement will be terminated. Those are my terms. Do you accept?"

He swallows the bite he was chewing, his Adam's apple bobbing up then down in the process. "Yes."

"Okay." She says, sliding a dollar under the saucer of her tea cup. "Is everything you have on the case in those files?"

"Yes."

"What time is your departure?"

He has his head turned sideways towards her standing form. He is still, unmoving, even his hands seem to refuse to let go of the burger, to hold on to something that represents not just the tangibility of her presence alone, but also her acceptance. "9:15 AM. Cherry Capital."

She nods, staring ahead at the door dazedly. "I have nothing else to learn from these files for now. You can brief me about the case when we arrive in D.C. so I can meet your team. I'll meet you at the airport at 8:30."

The sun has just set when Brennan steps out of the diner. She starts the truck and reaches for the glove compartment, taking out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter and places it in her lap before driving away.

* * *

Brennan huffs the last puff of smoke from her lips as she leaps down from her truck. She quickly heads for the outdoor entrance to the cellar, each step heavy as she descends the stairs. "Vincent?" She calls out, her eyes adjusting to the dimmed difference of the indoor illumination.

"Yeah?" Vincent answers, raising his head from the piles of paper on the table before him.

"I have to leave town for a while." She stops beside him, perching a hand on her hip.

The young man twists to face her, silent panic evident in his face. "For how long?"

"Indefinitely."

"What are we talking about?" Angela pipes in as she walks towards them, setting the box of empty wine bottles on the table.

Turning to her friend, Brennan drops her hands to her sides and distributes her weight on both feet. "Oh, the FBI from this morning. I agreed to go to DC. We're leaving tomorrow."

"Okay..." Angela trailed. "But Bren, is everything going to be okay?"

"I'm not sure anyone can answer that question, Angie. No one can see into the future," she chuckles, "that's just impossible. Although as for the vineyard, I'm fairly certain Vincent can manage on his own for a while."

Vincent nods at them both enthusiastically.

"That's not what I'm worried about, sweetie." Angela sighs. "You'll be facing a lot of the things that could remind you of what you've run away from."

The blonde woman scoffs, "You know I _hate_ psychology. Besides, once I've done everything I can to help with the case, I'll go back home. I'll be quick. In and out. No talking about the past, no asking personal questions. Things will be strictly professional between us. It better be or I will have to leave. They know that."

"I don't want you to spiral into a bigger meltdown and move halfway around the world!" She counters, an open palm gesturing across the room to paint how far she means.

Brennan releases half a chuckle. "Ange, your concern for me is highly appreciated, and I love you too—you're my dearest friend. But I'll be fine. You shouldn't worry."

The brunette's brows are knit together, confused and annoyed and worried as hell for her friend who tries to bury her vulnerability under layers of rationalization, professionalism, intelligence, and independence. "Right. Like Worry isn't my middle name."

"It isn't. You don't have one." Chimes in Brennan, matter-of-factly.

"Yeah, you're right. Of course." Angela snorts defensively. "When do you leave?"

She tells her friend with vigor, "Tomorrow at 9:15, Cherry Capital. Would you mind dropping me off at the airport? Bringing a car would be an inconvenience since—"

"Oh, I'd insist anyway. And I'm going to hug you now."Angela walks over to her friend and puts her arms around her in a firm embrace. "You have to promise to call me when you feel the need to, okay?"

"Angela," Brennan trails.

Pulling back, Angela holds her friend's shoulders at an arm's length and says, "Look, I know you're a strong, independent, genius woman; and trust me that no one will ever tell you otherwise. But all those layers of reason and logic wouldn't keep you safe from being hurt because you're also _just human_. And hurt is one of the feelings that human beings have to deal with in their lifetimes." She sighs. "You're not a cold fish, Brenn. If anything, you're a—"

"—a Vulcan, yes, I know." She laughs, finishing the sentence before Angela does.

"Live long and prosper." Vincent chimes from his seat at the table, his right hand raised to do the Vulcan salute.

"Vino _not_ delectable." Brennan says lowly, throwing a playful frown at Vincent.

"Bloodyh—" He looks at Angela with his mouth agape, "She's said it!" He says, motioning to Brennan at the obvious shock over what her boss has just told him.

* * *

Seeley Booth lies on the bed of his motel room, staring at the ceiling, thinking about everything all at once that if he's asked to tell someone about his thoughts, he'd fall silent. As for his emotions, anxiety fills him to the brim; a slow bubbling of worries and nervousness all mixed up to form a concoction of scenarios in his head that is now making him fidgety and sweaty even though he knows the airconditioning works just fine. With a frustrated sigh, he sits up and runs a hand through his hair before reaching into the nightstand for his mobile.

 _Can you talk?_ He types and sends. Half a minute later, his cell vibrates in his hand.

"What's up?" Comes Cam's voice through the line.

His breathing rapid, his pupils dilated through the darkness, grasping for an object to fix his stare on. "I'm not okay."

"Hey, what happened? Where are you? Are you safe?"

"I'm at the motel. I'm safe here but I don't know what to do, Cam. I just—" His voice tries to remain calm but fails at hiding the panic in it. "I saw her and talked to her. She's flying to D.C. with me. But she seems to be doing good here. You know she's blonde now?" He chuckles sadly and continues rambling, each word more frantic and sadder than the last. "I'm not sure I should be here. A mean, after all the shit I brought on her? She doesn't deserve to be bothered, Cam. She's better off without having seen me ever again. I really should've transferred this case to another agent as soon as we found out about her involvement. I never should've been here."

"Seeley. Listen to me. You need to take deep breaths, alright? Breathe with me. Inhale. Exhale." She says as she does, her delicate voice urging her friend into the breathing exercise for about 5 minutes. "Any better?"

"I—yeah." Booth answers, a bit calmer now. "I don't know how to be around her, Cam, I don't. She wants me to call her 'Dr. Brennan' but I can't just act like I had just met her."

"But you have to. That's what she wants and you have to respect her wishes, Booth." She reasons. "I get that you're guilty and bothered but you have to consider that maybe she's not. After all, it _has been_ fifteen years. Maybe we should consider that what she wants to distance herself from may have nothing to do with you or your past. Seel, this trip is about the case. She's a genius, I'm sure she knows that. We have to give her credit, I mean, she _did know_ how to compartmentalize even in high school."

He lets out a long sigh, standing up and walking towards the door. He flings it open and inhales the crisp cold air. "But she was _angry_. She didn't want to talk to me and made me leave both times."

"What did you expect after that nasty breakup? That she'd run to hug you?"

"You just said that was fifteen years ago!" Booth emphasizes, confused.

"Didn't make you feel any less guilty." She points out. "Look, I'm not gonna tell you that you're not at fault for what happened because you are and you need to own up to your mistakes. But Booth, we have to set aside your personal guilt for now because it's what she wants, okay? It's what she's asking for."

He exhales loudly, his chest collapsing at the gush of air leaving his lungs. "You're right. Okay."

"How did you get her to agree to help us with the case, anyway?"

The crescent midnight moon looms over his form and he steps forward into the balcony to fully bathe in the celestial glow, shivering a little at the wind that hugs him. "I went to her with the files and told her she's our best chance at solving this. If she had said no after reviewing the case, I would've backed off completely. You know that right?" The voice on the other line hums her agreement. "I just don't want to go home without having tried everything. Some person's life is at risk."

"I get it. But Bren has changed a lot, you know. It's not just you. I'm her friend, too. Or at least, I was. We lost touch since she disappeared 6 years ago when—" She cuts herself off and was quiet for a second or two. "You know, it's not really my story to tell. But if you say she's doing good then I'm really happy for her. A lot has happened to her, Booth. If putting up walls around herself was what it took for her to survive, then we should respect that even if it somewhat inconveniences us."

The following day, Booth and Brennan board the plane to DC at 9:00 in the morning and are thankfully seated away from each other (otherwise, one of them would've sweated his way home). They arrive at Reagan National Airport just a little after 1 in the afternoon and quickly file toward the exit doors of the airport where Agent Aubrey waits against the black FBI-issued pick-up truck, two cups of coffee balanced in a disposable paper tray while he sips on his caramel macchiato with 2 pumps of vanilla and a copious amount of cinnamon.

"Aubrey!" Booth called out as he made their way over to him. "Dr. Brennan, this is Agent James Aubrey."

The young agent nods at them, smiling, and offers them their coffee. "I also have 2 turkey sandwiches in the car, do you guys want any?"

Brennan shakes her head. "We should go to the Jeffersonian Institution now."

"Can I help you with that?" Aubrey asks them, pointing at their carry on bags.

"Just open the back," Booth says, taking a gulp of his coffee and walking over to the back of the Tahoe. He extends a hand towards Brennan's bag and she obliges, then opens the door of the backseat and slips in.

"Hey, Doc. How was your flight?" Aubrey greets as he starts the car. Booth is still outside, just making his way to the passenger seat quite leisurely.

"Agent Aubrey," she sighs, "For future references, I feel the need to inform you that I'm neither keen on nor do I welcome social conversations as well as any other kinds of conversations which will not be pertaining to the case." Brennan deadpans, looking to her left, and brings the cup to her lips.

Aubrey offers her a tight-lipped smile and nods politely, "Okay. Got it."

Booth opens the door to the passenger seat and clicks his tongue at the road ahead of them before taking a sip of his coffee. "Let's go."

* * *

In memorized strides, Booth leads the way to the Medico-Legal Lab with Brennan matching him step for step about a meter behind. They turn to their right where glass automatic sliding doors open when it senses them. Stepping inside, Brennan's eyes catch a bright room with a full set of cleaned skeleton lying atop a lit table on her left as they pass by. Up ahead, a platform equipped with various forensic tools and other paraphernalia. Booth nods at the first guard he sees and asks, "Cam?"

"In her office." The man replies.

Booth walks over to the corner office to his left and knocks at the glass door even though it is thrown wide open. When they receive no response, Booth pokes his head in and walked in. "Cam," he calls out. "Hey!" Booth says louder but still gathers no acknowledgment from the pathologist murmuring what would constitute as a song over an open body on her stainless steel autopsy table. At first, Brennan watches everything through the glass doors outside but later turns away and instead opts to observe the platform from where she is standing.

"Oh god!" Cam gasps when she finally looks up from the cadaver she's an arm-deep into, eyes wide in surprise. "Christ, you scared me, Booth…" She says, ridding herself of the gloves and taking off her earbuds.

"She's outside, wants to be briefed right away." He says, and Cam nods, taking off her apron and walking over to the sink to wash her hands. "Where's the rest of the squint squad?"

"In their offices." The pathologist answers, drying her hands on a hand towel hanging near the sink. Her heart the slightest bit of uneasy in her chest as she looks outside where she sees Brennan studying the platform from afar, her back to them. "I thought you were kidding about the blonde hair thing." Cam whispers to her friend. "She looks so… different."

"A lot less pale," Booth remarks. "Don't be nervous."

"I'm not." Counters Cam quickly, starting to make their way towards the waiting anthropologist.

"I am." He admits softly as they come to a stop behind Brennan.

* * *

 **A/N 2:** Yes, there will be quite a few Star Trek references from now on. Wow, okay, please do let me know if you think I should keep on writing specific details about the serial killer case or if I should just focus on the relationships. Because right now, I'm feeling pretty lazy. Leave reviews, s'il vous plaît. Live long and prosper.


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